My name is Yu Shimura. I'm thirty-seven. Each morning, as I straighten my tie in front of that cracked mirror, memories of the orphanage flood back unbidden.
St. Joseph's—a place permeated by a disquieting odor, the vessel of my earliest recollections.
I always found refuge in the library corner, watching the other children play in the yard. I was different; I knew it, they knew it. Chronic malnutrition had left me looking misshapen, my voice barely audible above a whisper. When nervous, my words dissolved into stutters.
The boys had a habit of hiding my schoolbag. The girls would exchange glances and stifle giggles when I walked by. I learned to keep my eyes down, to draw my shoulders in, as if I could somehow render myself invisible.
Junior high brought no reprieve. I couldn't play sports, couldn't land a joke. Lunch was a solitary affair, often spent in a bathroom stall to escape the stares that followed me through the hallways.
In high school, I briefly entertained the possibility of change. Kurekku, Tan, and Kuwabara actually spoke to me, invited me to eat with them. I was naive enough to believe I'd finally found friends. I did their homework, let them copy my exam answers. When they wanted snacks, I bought them. When they needed money, I lent it—until that day I overheard them around a corner.
"That idiot Shimura, so easy to fool."
"Like taking candy from a baby. Better than a vending machine."
"God, his blank, stupid face. Just looking at him pisses me off."
After that day, a persistent ache took residence in my stomach.
Their presence would set my hands trembling uncontrollably. I'd push my glasses up repeatedly, a nervous tic that did nothing to hide my anxiety. Yet I still did whatever they asked. Because I didn't know how to say no. Because something in me still craved their acceptance, however false.
My grades never suffered. Teachers said I could get into a top university. But the night before entrance exams, my body betrayed me—a night of searing abdominal pain and fever, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was my body's way of surrendering. I dragged myself to the exam hall the next day, my hand shaking so violently I could barely grip the pen.
My scores were just enough for an ordinary university.
I foolishly believed college would offer a clean slate. I studied how others interacted, forced myself to attend mixers. But whenever I spoke, the room would fall silent, followed by that polite, distant laughter that never reached anyone's eyes. At one mixer, I mustered what little courage I had to speak to a girl. She looked me up and down, then turned to her friend with a stage whisper: "Someone like him comes to a mixer?"
I drifted through college like a ghost, and then joined Wilson Construction. I thought—how laughable it seems now—that employment would change things. Nothing changed.
The basement of Wilson Construction became my sanctuary. The hum of fluorescent lights in the records room melded with my breathing until I couldn't tell one from the other.
Each morning, I was first to arrive. I savored that quiet—no sideways glances, no muttered "Hey, records room guy." For thirteen years, I watched fresh-faced graduates arrive and advance: from intern to supervisor, from assistant to manager. And I remained Shimura, perpetually hidden in the records room.
I wasn't lazy. Working until ten at night was my norm. But success went unnoticed, while failure was always laid at my feet.
"Shimura, double-check these documents."
"Shimura, we need you this weekend."
"Shimura, explain this discrepancy."
I'd nod, murmur, "Yes, I understand," in a voice so soft it seemed apologetic for existing. They'd offload their work onto me as if I were the office dumping ground, the designated cleaner of everyone else's messes.
Last month, an error appeared in the municipal project documents. That pompous department head called me in and berated me, his double chin quivering with righteous indignation about "incompetence" and "such simple work." Ankushi had made the mistake, but in the meeting, all eyes turned to me. I adjusted my glasses and absorbed the blame. "I'm sorry."
I saw too much at Wilson. The pretty intern who flirted with the HR manager in the break room—promoted to assistant a month later. The charming account executive who took a different female colleague to mixers each month—I watched them return, one by one, wiping away tears. No one cared what I witnessed. I was wallpaper. Background noise.
Then there was Lily.
Lily from HR, the only one who ever acknowledged my existence with a "Good work" and a cup of coffee. Her smile—God, her smile—would send my fingers tapping anxiously against file folders, terrified someone might notice my quickened breath. Then I discovered her affair with a married supervisor.
One day, I spotted her at the supermarket, heavily pregnant, struggling with a carton of milk. I approached and offered help. She thanked me politely, with the vacant politeness reserved for strangers. That's when I understood how truly invisible I was. Despite working together for years, despite my watching her every day, she didn't even recognize me.
The office whispers continued unabated. "That Shimura guy gives me the creeps."
"Heard he never socializes."
"Wonder what he does alone in that basement all day..."
I pretended deafness, organizing files with mechanical precision. But each word was a needle under my skin.
Sometimes I wondered if my disappearance would register at all. Probably not. I was just Shimura from records, an expendable shadow.
Everything changed on what should have been an ordinary night.
After work, I visited my usual bar. My regular corner seat, a glass of whiskey. Nearby patrons laughed raucously, their voices like drills against my eardrums. I paid and left early, walking home through familiar alleys. My apartment building loomed in the darkness like a mausoleum. I stood below, staring at the illuminated windows, each one a life I could never touch.
Back in my room, I curled up on my narrow bed.
Then I heard it—sounds from downstairs.
At first, I dismissed it as imagination, but the sounds grew clearer—a woman's ecstatic moans, the rhythmic creaking of a bed frame. My hands began to shake, sweat beading on my forehead. I knew it was wrong, but I found myself pressing an ear to the floor, listening with shameful intensity.
That was the first time I felt truly alive.
That night, I lay awake until dawn, my body feverish with a new awareness.
Mrs. Mackie was the only soul in this city who showed me kindness. When I helped with her packages or letters, she'd invite me in for tea. She'd always say, "Shimura, a sweet boy like you—how haven't you found yourself a nice girl yet?"
My glasses would fog, and I'd push them up with trembling fingers, muttering something about "not meeting the right one." Though sometimes her chatter exhausted me, that small management office was the only place that offered any warmth.
I began acquiring equipment: binoculars, pinhole cameras, wireless earbuds. My hands shook as I paid, certain the cashier could read my intentions. Every time I helped Mrs. Mackie clean a vacant apartment, I'd surreptitiously install these devices. I knew I was betraying her trust, but I couldn't stop myself.
I documented each tenant's routine with clinical precision: the girl in 403, Building 5, bathed at 10:30 sharp; the couple above her were most active on weekends; the young wife in 302 across the way entertained men during her husband's business trips. I archived these observations methodically, as meticulous with my private collection as I was with the records room files.
On a stifling summer night, I positioned my binoculars at ten o'clock. The light in Room 403 was on. Through the slats of her blinds, I could see her slender silhouette. She followed the same ritual nightly—hanging her towel on the hook, then slowly unbuttoning her clothes...
Suddenly, a tall figure appeared at her window.
My fingers tapped nervously against the windowsill, keeping time with my racing heart.
The man stood behind her. I watched his gloved hands rise slowly.
It happened with horrifying speed—his fingers closed around her throat, lifting her completely off the ground. Her bare feet kicked wildly, fingers clawing desperately at the hands crushing her windpipe. Her mouth opened in silent gasps, like a fish out of water.
Cold sweat trickled down my face, my glasses slipping repeatedly. I watched her struggles weaken, her eyes lose focus, her limbs hanging limp as a discarded puppet.
Her body fell heavily to the floor.
I should have called police.
Instead, my fingers just kept tapping on the windowsill until my knuckles whitened. I was a criminal too, wasn't I? If I reported this, my own secrets would surface.
That night, I curled up in bed, afraid to turn off the light.
At 3:17 AM, I saw her.
She stood at the foot of my bed, her naked body mottled with bluish strangulation bruises. Dark blood trickled from her eyes, nose, ears, and mouth, dripping onto my sheets. I tried to scream, but my voice abandoned me.
When I jerked awake from the nightmare, I expected the horror to dissipate. Instead, I heard a voice—not from outside, but inside my skull: "Kill them..." It was soft yet unnervingly clear, like a whisper directly into my ear.
I buried my head under the pillow, but the voice persisted: "Kill them... kill them..."
The next day, I consulted a psychiatrist. He diagnosed post-traumatic stress disorder and prescribed a rainbow of pills—white, yellow, pink. The medication proved useless. The voice became my constant companion.
Only in Mrs. Mackie's office did it quiet somewhat. But even while sipping her tea, my fingers would unconsciously tap against the porcelain, keeping rhythm with the whispers in my head.
In the days that followed, I tried to normalize the voice, telling myself hallucinations weren't inherently frightening. I returned to my routine, watching the couple across the way through my binoculars—their bodies entangled, her school uniform skirt still draped over a chair. My palms sweated, my glasses continually slipping down my nose.
Then the girl turned and looked directly at me.
Initially, I dismissed it as paranoia. Then I saw her smile—a knowing curve of the lips that sent me stumbling backward in terror.
Another sleepless night followed, my fingers drumming incessantly against the bedsheets.
That weekend, a knock came at my door.
It was her—the girl from across the way. Her Duville College uniform was unmistakable, her tie deliberately loose.
"Enjoy the show the other night?" she asked, her smile sickeningly sweet.
My shirt clung to my back, drenched in cold sweat. I tried to speak, but produced only silence.
She strolled into my apartment as if invited, examining my equipment with casual interest. "Quite professional, Mr. Shimura." She lifted my binoculars. "I wonder what the police would think."
I dropped to my knees, voice fracturing. "Please... I'm begging you..."
"Secrets can be kept." She moved closer, her uniform skirt brushing my cheek. "Play with me a little."
It was my first time. I was pathetically clumsy, trembling uncontrollably. She rode me, contempt evident in her eyes. I couldn't bear to look at her, my fingers clutching the sheets with desperate intensity.
Less than a minute later, it was over.
Her laugh was pure derision.
"Three thousand, and I'll keep your secret," she said, adjusting her uniform, her smile demonic. "Otherwise, everyone learns about your little hobby."
I knelt on the floor, pleading, but she merely sneered. "Tomorrow. Bring the money to Duville College."
The next day, I delivered the cash. She waited on the athletic field, examining the envelope with casual indifference.
She raised her price on the spot. "Mr. Shimura, such an honest man. But if you want continued discretion," her smile widened, "add another two thousand. That should buy our permanent silence."
I explained I didn't have that much cash immediately available. I begged for time.
I paid her five thousand, knowing it wouldn't end there.
Afterward, I checked my mailbox with dread, fearing new demands. Each time I used my binoculars, I remembered her mocking gaze. The voice grew more insistent: "Kill them... kill them..."
Time accelerated without my awareness.
I began seeing her everywhere—outside the convenience store, at the tram stop. Each time I pursued the figure, it vanished into the crowd. My stomach pains intensified. Sleep became impossible, while the voice in my head grew more frantic.
That morning, I arrived at work an hour early, as usual. The fluorescent lights hummed in the records room. I sorted files mechanically, trying to numb myself with routine.
That cop, Carl, appeared while I was organizing files. Reception called to inform me that police needed a statement. My knuckles tapped an irregular rhythm against the folders—a silent distress signal. My glasses repeatedly slid down from cold sweat; this damned anxiety had become instinctual.
I met Carl at a coffee shop near the office. He informed me that Daisy was dead. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The girl who'd blackmailed me—dead? Carl said both she and her boyfriend were murdered. For one brief moment, I experienced a surge of something like relief, quickly followed by stomach-churning panic. I knew they suspected me. I pushed my glasses up repeatedly to conceal my terror.
After days of agonizing suspense, I dared to hope it might be over, that my secrets might remain buried. Then that detective forced his way into my apartment without warning. They discovered everything—the equipment, the recordings, all evidence of my shameful obsession. They took me to the station.
The interrogation room lights were blinding. They tried to frame me, those incompetent fools. They wanted a convenient scapegoat for Daisy's murder. I told them I'd witnessed a killing, but they dismissed my claims. Fighting for my life, I had to confess all my sordid activities to establish my alibi.
When they returned me to my apartment, I saw the disappointment in Mrs. Mackie's eyes. The only person who'd shown me genuine respect spoke in a tone of pure venom, her words cutting deeper than any knife. The other tenants looked at me as if I were something monstrous. I saw their anger, their hatred, their contempt.
Hypocrites. All of them. So quick to judge, so righteous in their condemnation.
The voice in my head grew louder, clearer, threatening to split my skull.
"Kill them! Kill them!"
The next day, police took me to a holding cell, citing suspected sex crimes.
In the quiet of night, the girl from 403 and Daisy visit me. They stand by my bed, blood seeping from their orifices, dripping onto my sheets.
The voice continues: "Kill him... kill them..."
Carl ruined everything. If not for him... if not for his interference...
"Kill them. Kill him." I feel my throat vibrate. I can no longer distinguish between hallucination and my own voice.
A profound coldness has settled in my bones, as if my very soul is crystallizing into ice. White mist obscures my vision. Before me stands only a hazy silhouette.
Shimura tightens his grip on the dagger.
"Kill him."